


darkened meetings on the champs-élysées

by flibbertygigget



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Doomed Relationship, F/M, HP UnHappily Ever After Fest 2019, Identity Issues, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Severus Snape Lives, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-02 12:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbertygigget/pseuds/flibbertygigget
Summary: "Tell me, Professor McGonagall," the man who was not Toby Smith said, "do you have any regrets?"





	darkened meetings on the champs-élysées

_ Let’s face it. You didn’t meet me after all these years and fall in love with me. You fled… because I reminded you of the values you once held. When you were not afraid to admit or speak the truth about anything. I don’t say I am right in everything I’ve done since then, but we did remind each other of a little bit of our real selves. _

_ \- Wole Soyinka,  _ _ The Beatification of Area Boy _

The new patient was staring at her.

He had given his name as Toby Smith. It was an obvious alias. Once, before the end of the Death Eater Wars - no, that’s not right,  _ before  _ the Death Eater Wars - that would have been suspicious. There were too many reasons to have an alias now. Some wanted to distance themselves from what they did or did not do during the wars. Some wanted to simply be forgotten.

Some, like Minerva McGonagall, used an alias in an attempt at privacy. It’s the same reason she had come to France rather than undertaking this task back in Britain.

This session, instead of paying attention the mediwizard who took them around the circle of recovery, she stared right back at him. She hadn’t gone into the trouble of Polyjuice or a mirage, but he almost certainly had. It was probably a mirage, because not only did she not recognize him, but he had the sort of bland features that rendered him utterly forgettable. Not particularly handsome, not particularly ugly. His eyes were a sort of nondescript muddle, and his hair was on the precipice between brown and blond. 

The session ended like all the others did, but instead of leaving as quickly as possible she lingered, wondering if he wanted to speak or if his recognition was meant to remain unremarked upon. Before long, they were the only two left in the room.

“Your mirage is exemplary,” she said after an awkward pause. He nodded his head gravely.

“I had an excellent teacher.” His voice was lower and more gravelly than she had expected. She squinted at him, trying to figure out how old he was beneath the mirage. Forty? Fifty? Even knowing that she had taught him, she couldn’t seem to break it. “You know, it is considered incredibly rude to seek to see beyond what has been permitted.”

“You stared at me first,” Minerva said, instantly feeling like a petulant First Year. The way one eyebrow and the corners of his mouth lifted made it clear that the mysterious new patient was thinking the same thing.

“Why haven’t you used a mirage as well?” he asked. “After all, you are the undisputed expert of human transfiguration.”

“I have no reason to hide,” she said. “Not from those who know me, in any case.”

“Hmm,” he said. “And yet you use an alias.” She ground her teeth at the blatant skepticism in his voice. 

“Well, I hardly want the press to descend upon me like a pack of pixies,” she said. “It’s an attempt at - at privacy.”

“As is my mirage,” he said, “and so I would be much obliged if you ceased in attempting to break it.”

“Merlin’s bollocks,” she muttered. He gave a slight snort, no more than an exhalation of air. “What?”

“You are as foul-tempered and self-righteous as I remembered,” he said, something strangely fond in his tone. Minerva pursed her lips. Either he had been a student quite a long time ago and had forgotten what she did to those who gave too much cheek, or he had known her outside of his Hogwarts days. If it was the latter, well, that narrowed the field quite a bit. “You’re still doing it. You’re still trying to break the mirage.”

“Call it professional curiosity.”

“As a Mistress of Transfiguration or as a member of the Order of the Phoenix?”

“There is no Order anymore, Mr. Smith. We’ve been disbanded.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t leave you, does it?”

“What doesn’t leave you?”

“Everything.” He was serious, she realized. He was actually deadly serious. When she had first seen the mirage, she had wondered whether he was the sort of man who had simply gone on with his life as the war raged on, who had allowed evil to conquer and was now ashamed of it. Now she knows that it must be quite the opposite.

“No,” she said. “Or, at least, I’m afraid that for me it hasn’t.” His jaw clenched, but his eyes were wet and horribly disappointed.

“I see,” he said. “Good day, Professor McGonagall. Or is it Headmistress now?”

“Neither,” she said. “I’ve retired.” Left in shame and disgrace was more like it. She hadn’t been able to cut it, not with the nightmares and stalking fear.

“Hmm,” he said. He finally stood, conjuring a walking stick to help him from the room. Minerva felt like she had something lodged in her throat.

“I will see you next week, I suppose,” she said.

“Oh, perhaps,” the man who was not named Toby Smith said. Then he pinned her with a look more intense than his stares. “Tell me, Professor, do you have any regrets?” She thought of the Death Eaters let loose in Hogwarts, terrorizing the students, beating the children and leaving them hung up in chains.

“What’s the use of that?” she said breathlessly. He seemed slightly amused again.

“Indeed,” he said.

* * *

They left the next session together, emerging from wizard-space at the Jardins des Champs-Élysées. The man who was not named Toby Smith leaned heavily on his cane, grimacing as the cold January air beat at their faces.

“At least it isn’t Scotland,” Minerva said. He grunted. “Oh, don’t be such an infant.” Still, she checked carefully for Muggles about before muttering a Warming Charm. He straightened up slightly, rubbing the knots from his bum leg. “How did that happen?”

“How do you know I’m not just getting old?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she sniffed. “Witches and wizards can easily live into their 200s, and if I taught you then you can’t be more than, what, 50? 55 at most.”

“If I wasn’t under a mirage I’d be insulted,” he said. 

“So you are younger,” she said. “I’d wondered.” She paused. “Exactly how young?”

“Now, that would be telling.”

“How so?”

“People can make a lot of assumptions about a wizard based on his age,” Toby Smith said. She raised an eyebrow. “For example, knowing your age I can tell that you were part of both Death Eater Wars, but you were too young for Grindelwald to be more than a fairy story. Still, you were old and established enough.”

“Old and- Enough for what?”

“Enough that your battle lines were already drawn,” he said. “You worked for  _ Dumbledore _ , after all.”

“I take it you didn’t,” Minerva said delicately, trying to think of other explanations. Perhaps he had worked for the Ministry. Perhaps he had been abroad and come back to find a country divided.

“Oh, I worked for him,” he said, then he lowered his voice, “as a matter of speaking.”

“What do you mean? Either you worked with us or you didn’t.”

“Surely you know that it wasn’t that simple.”

“It  _ was _ that simple, Mr. Smith,” she said firmly. He was staring at her with that expression of exasperation and fondness again, the one that made her feel like an unruly child under his gaze.

“Perhaps it was for you,” he conceded. “It wasn’t for me.” Before she could answer he faltered, leaning heavily on his cane to compensate for his sudden weakness. She caught him, and her stomach clenched at how he tensed under her hands.

“Come along,” she said softly. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”

“I don’t need you to manage me,” he snapped. He straightened, his left leg trembling under his weight. “Still, perhaps I should be going.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Tell me, McGonagall, do you have any regrets?” She thought about his indecision, about the way he seemed determined to muddy the battle lines.

“Do you?” He closed his eyes and swallowed. It was enough to make Minerva almost regret asking.

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

* * *

The next time they met, they went to the Louvre.

They walked silently through the halls and wings. At first Toby seemed to gaze more at the Muggles around them than at the paintings and sculptures, eyes flitting nervously from one tour group to another. Minerva was distracted as well, distracted by him. His mirage was shakier than it usually was, and she was wondering if this was the day that she would be able to break it.

“Can we sit?” he said at last. She nodded, dropping down beside him on a bench. He nodded at the painting they were facing.

“I like this one,” he said. Minerva studied it. It was a painting of a woman clad only in a helmet and streaming red cloth. She stood victorious atop an androgynous figure whose feet turned into a snake’s tail. 

“Do you know what it’s called?” she said.

“‘Allegory of Victory.’ It’s by one of the Le Nain brothers, I believe.”

“Victory,” Minerva said. “What tosh. They don’t look like they’re fighting.” Toby quirked an eyebrow at her. “It looks as though they’re about to kiss!”

“That wasn’t what I got out of it,” he said.

“Then what did you?” Toby took a deep breath, hands spasming around the handle of his cane.

“Minerva,” he said. “Minerva, I-” She placed a hand over his.

“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t wish to,” she said.

“No, I - I do. I do wish to. I just-” He ran a hand through his hair. “This is coming out all wrong.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, no it isn’t. I - Minerva, seeing you again these past few weeks - it’s like returning to myself, to someone I never thought I’d be again. It’s like the war never happened, and… But that painting. That’s how things are, really. This is all a lie.”

“What do you mean? Have you been lying to me?”

“I haven’t shown you my face.” He started to move his hand away, but she held on, squeezing it gently instead.

“You don’t have to.”

“You wouldn’t like who I am underneath the mirage.” She shook her head. “No, I know you wouldn’t, and it hasn’t been fair to you that I’ve kept my secrets this long. I’ve kept so many secrets.”

“Toby, I know you. I know you and, well, I’m sure you have your reasons.”

“I do.”

“You said you had regrets.”

“Yes.”

“Would you do it again?” He looked away and didn’t answer. “Toby, would you do those things again?”

“I look back on it all,” he said quietly, slowly, “and I try to pick out where it first went wrong, where - where I had a chance to really change things. And I look at it and I-” He choked, clenching his eyes to stop his tears. “There are so many ways it could have been better, but I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again.”

“What?”

“It worked. It was fucked up and horrible and - But it worked. We won.” He was sobbing now, composure completely broken. “We won. And maybe we could have won even without it, even if I had chosen to do the right thing in the first place, but - it could have gone so horribly wrong as well. And I can’t bring myself, when I think back to it all, to - to-”

“To risk it,” she said softly. “To change it.”

“Yes,” he said. “And I know, I know you hate me for it, I know you have every reason to-”

“I could never hate you.”

“You don’t even know who I am.” Minerva shook her head, putting a hand to the right side of his face.

“I won’t regret this,” she said, and then she kissed him. He trembled under her lips, and for a moment she thought that he would kiss her back. But then he jerked back, pushing her away.

“Sorry,” he said. “I - I have to go.”

“Wait!” With a crack of ozone, he Disapparated away.

* * *

The next week, Minerva came to therapy early, determined to speak with Toby alone beforehand. But the others filtered in, chatting amiably amongst themselves, and there was no sign of the one man she actually wanted to see. She was distracted the whole session, wondering whether her ill-timed kiss had scared him off.

The next two sessions were the same. Minerva began to resign herself to never seeing him again. Even though they had known each other for less than a month, she had felt more herself with him than she had… well, in too long. Since the second war had begun. 

He had understood her, she realized, understood her better than anyone else in her acquaintance, even herself. Poppy and Filius had been with her through thick and thin, but they had kept themselves through the war. Wizarding Britain, likewise, seemed determined to leave those dark days behind, and good for them if they managed it, but Minerva couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She still had nightmares every night, nightmares of what had and could have been, nightmares of her students and colleagues falling before You-Know-Who. 

She couldn’t even get over it enough to say  _ his _ name. How was she expected to move on?

But Toby, he had understood that. He had been affected permanently by the war as well, his bum leg physical evidence that he had done what he could and paid for it. His regrets, his uncertainty over his decisions during the war, all of it seemed to echo Minerva’s deepest nightmares, the ones where she went over how she had failed to act and saw clearly how much of the horror was of her own making. She felt as though she could inhabit his body as easily as her own Animagus form.

But more than that, he was unlike her. He was  _ better _ at all this than her. He was able to look at his own actions with as much unflinching assurance as regret. He was able to poke holes in her own motives, but gently, with the air of someone who was used to breaking things down to create something new. Even if he never came back to therapy, even if she never saw him again, he had given her something far more valuable than friendship or a mere dalliance. He had given her the perspective to step back and look at her most righteous actions with a viper’s eye, revealing the cracks at the very foundations of her most dearly held beliefs.

And then, after all that, he had given her the ability to say she regretted none of it. She might change what she did in the future, but the past was over and done with, and he had been right when he had said that they’d won. That was all that she could have asked of herself in the war. It was time to improve the peacetime.

* * *

She was exiting wizard-space when she saw him. It was an unseasonably warm day in April, and the Jardins des Champs-Élysées were beginning to bloom in earnest. Toby was sitting on the edge of a fountain, framed by pink and yellow petunias. She froze, wondering why he was here after almost three months. When he saw her he stood, his leg obviously faring a little better outside of the winter.

“Minerva,” he said.

“Toby,” she said. “I’m glad to see you. How have you been?” For a moment he simply stared at her, something sad and final in his eyes.

“I’ve made my decision,” he said. “Before, you had said - I mean, you implied that I didn’t have to bring down my mirage. That you would be my friend regardless.”

“That wasn’t a friendly kiss I gave you,” Minerva said wryly, “but you are correct in the essentials.” A ghost of a smile hovered momentarily around his mouth before disappearing.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “It isn’t fair to expect you to - You should be able to trust me. You should be able to see my true face and make your decision then.” Minerva wanted to protest, wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter who he was underneath the mirage, she  _ knew _ him, but something stopped her. He was being so damn serious about this, and it was frightening.

“Well,” she said, trying for her brusque professor voice and falling fantasically short, “get on with it them.” He closed his eyes, brought his wand up to his face, and  _ pulled _ .

The first thing she noticed was the scars. They covered the left side of his face, gouging out his cheek and tearing through his jugular before disappearing beneath his coat collar. His hair had been clipped short, and the amount of grey shot through it made it seem as if he had aged decades rather than less than two years. He gripped his cane tightly, awaiting her judgement like a man on the dock, and she could hardly believe that she hadn’t recognized those thin, potion-stained hands on their first meeting. She looked into his eyes, shocked and horrified.

“You,” she said. “But you’re supposed to be dead.”

“Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated,” he said with a shrug. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d strode forward and slapped him. 

“How dare you!” she yelled. “How  _ dare _ you stand there like that? How  _ dare _ you act like you have any right to speak to me?” She slapped him again, but he made no move to defend himself. “You destroyed Hogwarts! You stood to the side as your students were  _ tortured _ ! You gave the Carrows free reign, you gave them  _ orders _ -” She was sobbing now, fists slowing until she was pounding helplessly against his chest. He caught her wrists gently, pulling her towards him and muttering comfortingly.

“I know,” he said. “I know. I’m sorry.” Her rage, which had momentarily given way to grief, reignited.

“You’re sorry? You’re  _ sorry _ ?” She shook her head, snatching her hands away from him. He let her go, looking at her with disgusting earnestness. “This goes beyond apologies. Maybe if it was only spying, I could have forgiven you, but the students -  _ Hogwarts _ -”

“I know,” he said again. “That’s why I needed to tell you. I knew-”

“Don’t try to bloody make this about you,” she snapped.

“Minerva-”

“And  _ don’t  _ call me that.” She turned away from him, ready to leave Champs-Élysées and this whole  _ mess _ behind her.

“Please, listen to me, just this once.”

“I  _ loved _ Toby, Se- Snape,” she said. “I thought we understood each other. I thought we were  _ friends _ . But it was all a lie, wasn’t it?”

“With Toby? Or with me?” She didn’t answer. “Minerva, please, just let me have my say and then - and then I’ll never see you again, if you don’t want me to.” She took a deep breath and turned back toward him.

“Fine,” she said. “What is it?”

“Thank you,” he said, somehow managing to sound both exasperated and relieved. “Minerva, let’s face it, you were never in love with me - well, with Toby. No,” he held up a hand, “you promised to let me have my say, and I don’t know why you would dispute that anyways. You were never in love with the so-called Toby Smith. You liked that he challenged you, that he understood you. You liked that he reminded you of what you were before the war, but you were never in love with him.”

“What’s your point?” she said. “Either I was never in love with him, or… well, it’s hopeless now. I could never be in love with  _ you _ .” 

“I know,” he said, and damn him he looked regretful. “For what it’s worth, I think I was a little bit in love with you. At least, I was in love with the way you talked to Toby, with the way you acted like he wasn’t insane for not regretting, the way you thought he was something worthy of redemption.”

“If I had known it was  _ you _ -”

“That’s why I had to break the mirage," he said. "I didn’t want you giving more than you would have wanted to.” Minerva let out a shuddering breath.

“Well, you did one thing right at least,” she muttered. His lips quirked. “And I suppose I  _ ought _ to thank you for that.”

“I won’t say - I know I didn’t do it right back then. I haven’t even done it all right  _ since _ then. But I want to do it right from now on, and I think you do, too, because we’ve reminded each other of what we were and of what we failed to be.”

“What are you asking for?” she said.

“I want a chance. Not love, not - not even friendship if that’s too much, but I do want a chance for us to be… civil. To be able to keep reminding each other.” She looked at him, war-torn, weary, and yet in desperate earnest.

“Severus,” she said, “I don’t want anything to do with you. Not now, not ever. Not after everything. I do,” she paused, “I do thank you, though. For reminding me.” He gave her a nod filled with too much understanding, and she turned away from him at last. 

It was time to leave the garden.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Post-War. Characters A and B meet in therapy, but a revelation of identity results their ultimate break-up. Character A is under a glamour, their true identity hidden.


End file.
